


Old Habits Die Hard

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Bass POV, Excessive Cuddling, Gay Sex, M/M, Smut, Some Fluff, Some angst, includes flashback to Marine Era, sniper scene + missing scene, sniping annoys me but is sexy, spoilers for 2.13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:19:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They negotiate the shot in clipped language only they know; wind, gravity, Earth’s elements become their bitches. Monroe and Matheson don’t miss.” When Bass and Miles kill together, a rush of surprising intimacy returns. Bass POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Habits Die Hard

**Author's Note:**

> I make no apologies for how prolonged the Miloe cuddle in this is, okay? Bass demanded it. He also held me hostage from work to make sure he got off multiple times. I can see why he was an effective dictator. *headdesk*

They settle into old habits on the rooftop. Miles loads his round, checks his optics mounting, while Bass scans the field through his binoculars, then pulls back to read the wind – the way the “American” flag flaps just so, the tumble weed’s ambling path on the dirt road below. The unseasonable heat, humidity, and breeze, plus three moving targets and a hostage situation? It won’t be an easy shot. But Bass trusts Miles implicitly. Everything that has come between them in the past sixteen years is irrelevant in this space, where they are simply two halves of one sniper.

They negotiate the shot in clipped language only they know; wind, gravity, the elements of Earth become their bitches. Monroe and Matheson don’t miss. Another glance through his binoculars tells Bass things are tensing up inside that office, and he’s certain of their mark now: the dark-haired one. The bald one is a coward and the redhead subservient. Bass’ son is in thickening trouble, but Miles won’t let him die. _Miles won’t let him die._

Bass knows the closer they draw to the shot, the more Miles prefers silence. With a hushed, “Show time,” Bass presses three fingers to the sun-warmth of the brick. He delivers the final wind reading.

“Roger,” comes the gravelly voice, as Miles clicks his final adjustment.

The eyestrain singes – Bass is out of practice – but he fights fatigue and refuses to blink. The hairs on his arm rise in anticipation. “Hit it.”

Miles has three seconds, but he never needs all three. _Bang!_

Bass forgot how the air gets mixed up in the bullet’s wake – the vapor trail. He tucks away a finger. _And then there were two._ He glances back to Miles clearing the shell casing, reloading, and returning his eye to the scope, all in mere seconds. Bass lifts his binoculars once more.

“Three cuffed. Connor’s coming out alone,” Bass reports evenly. They remain at the ready until Connor has cleared the town walls, and only then do they begin packing their gear. It’s halfway down the fire escape that the intimacy overwhelms Bass.

Miles clearly feels it too. When their boots hit dirt, he re-slings his rifle over his shoulder and won’t look at Bass.

Sniping takes a lot out of the shooter, Bass knows. Miles needs time to come down off the rush, the concentration, the sheer will required for this kind of kill. So Bass gives him the space of out respect, as they clomp toward the rendezvous point.

Bass wishes his brain would give _him_ some space, but it is has darted to the least anticipated, most unwelcome memory possible: their final trip overseas. Not the desert or the wars – the last place they were snipers; that would be far too logical. Instead, Bass is in motherfucking Okinawa on a date with Miles.

* * *

_Okinawa, 2011_

They look like typical military trying to blend in with civies. Their close-shorn hair make their necks look too big for their heads, their button-down shirts are stretched too tight across their muscles, their jeans are just a bit lighter wash than is currently fashionable. But somehow Miles still looks irrepressibly hot. 

Bass is more than a little tipsy from the last bar, and once Miles starts drinking he’s as hard to budge as Jabba the Hut – the old, fat one, not that young-slug version from the shitty _Star Wars_ – so it has taken a considerable amount of effort to get them back on the sultry streets of Okinawa, blundering toward an undisclosed location Bass found on the internet.

“Bass, where the hell are you taking me?”

If Bass told Miles, it would spook him, so Bass just smiles and barrels ahead. In a moment, they plunge behind a darkened glass door into cigarette smoke, techno beat, and giddy chatter. The violet lights of the dance floor bounce off little yellow umbrellas in tropical drinks.

“I see a lot of dudes rubbing up on each other,” Miles grumbles under a cocked eyebrow. He’d rather die than show his affection for Bass in public, Bass knows, but this is different. They’re old now – nearly thirty. You’d think Miles would yield to maturity just a little.

“ - which is what we’d like to be doing,” Bass offers sagely. At least _his_ dick is twitching in his pants.

“Bass,” Miles warns.

“What? No one knows us here.”

“Base is nearby.”

“Any Marines we see here aren’t exactly going to be in a position to narc us out.” Bass is already at the bar ordering them a couple of awamoris from a delicate-boned bartender with a blazing white smile. Well, if Miles won’t fuck him, there’s always this tasty morsel. Bass shoots Miles’ scowling mug a look to make him wise to this train of thought.

Of course, no one but Miles will do.

In handing off the transparent liquid to his friend, their fingers brush with a crackle of electricity. Miles grimaces at his foreign drink but tosses it back anyway (like a goddamn shot), puffing out his bottom lip as if to say, _Not bad_. 

_That’s right, Miles. You can trust me, you skeptical cock._

Bass grabs hold of the chiseled bicep. _Shit does Miles smell spicy, boozy, sweaty tonight._ Bass is going to have to take it down a notch, before his outmoded jeans flaunt his horniness to every gay man in this bar.

“Noo,” Miles resists being pulled to the dance floor, digging in his heels. _Stubborn ass._

“Yes.”

Bass has already succeeded in getting Miles far enough into the melee of undulating bodies that Miles has no choice but to respond when Bass drapes an arm over his shoulder and spreads a hand on his chest. Miles’ large, cracked hands fall casually onto Bass’ slim hips.

“You’re sweating,” Bass comments, as a great droplet of moisture descends Miles’ temple.

“It’s fucking hotter and wetter here than South Carolina.”

“You’re fucking hot and wet,” Bass mumbles rather drunkenly, as he face-plants onto Miles’ shoulder.

“Come on, man. You’re not even dancing anymore,” Miles almost chuckles and tries to direct them off the dance floor. Bass tightens his grip around his beau. The entrancing techno thuds into Bass’ brain, his intestines. He could fade out in Miles’ arms; indeed, he’s putting almost all his weight into their embrace.

“Stand up, Bass,” Miles vibrates into his hair. Bass feels Miles slide his lips along his scalp. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Bass is plunging fast. It happens without warning ever since the accident. “More booze.” 

“We’ll grab a bottle on the way to the hotel. Come on.”

Bass lingers a hair longer on Miles’ mighty shoulder, before letting his friend take charge.

An hour later they’re passing a bottle back and forth across the gulf between their queen beds.

The more Bass drinks, the more he sobers up – this is the work of the accident, too. Once you begin to fixate on your family getting crunched in a metal coffin, no amount of alcohol in the world can dull your senses.

Miles, however, is starting to succumb. Bass can tell because his friend flashes him this enormous grin like Bass hasn’t see in months? In years? _Damn, he’s pretty._

“Why’s you so far away?” Miles slurs.

Bass hefts his leaden legs over the chasm between them and collapses face-first onto the denim hill of Miles’ crotch.

“Oof,” Miles exhales and shoves his fingers roughly into Bass’ hair, almost missing altogether. “You…thinkin’ about them?” _His family._ Miles always reads more than he lets on. Sometimes he’ll even tell you about it.

Unexpectedly, Bass’ eyes are leaking. It’s embarrassing – a year later, and he’s still weeping.

Miles massages Bass’ scalp with fingers calloused from rifles, guitars, and his bad habit of chewing on the ragged skin and nails.

Bass can tell Miles is concerned, because he says more things – _sweet_ things. Most people don’t even know Miles is capable of this. “It’s okay, you know. You’re allowed to…be sad about this forever.”

A fresh tsunami of tears is unleashed. _Hell_ , they’re in Japan, after all. Bass hates himself a little for his weakness, for being alive to suffer it.

Sighing, Miles sinks down and draws Bass into his armpit, unbuttoning his stiff shirt to allow Bass to lie on his bare, hair-lined chest, because he knows that helps. Heat radiates off Miles’ skin and his heart beats a comforting rhythm. Bass reaches up with his left hand to stroke Miles’ right pectoral muscle, combing the fur back and forth like Miles is his pet. Miles’ breathing is so even, that after a long while, Bass wonders if he’s passed out. But looking up, he meets the chocolate eyes regarding him patiently.

Bass snuggles deeper into Miles’ armpit and is relieved to feel the sorrow begin to abate.

“We only have one night together every year and I’m ruining it,” Bass half-laughs.

“S’okay to take what you need. I’m here.” Dead serious. A glace upward shows the eyes remain just as intense, attentive.

This time, Bass determines to hold their gaze, and Miles cups his cheek, guiding lips to lips, lingering there – stinging booze and hot breath. They kiss forever, tasting each other deeply, letting the warmth of arousal spread to their chests, their crotches, down to their toes.

Bass ends up fucking Miles right there in his lap, the long, thick cock straight up the center of him, prodding some secret, sensitive place, one speck past the point of pleasure to overwhelming. His prostate ticks with the rhythm of Miles’ uneven upward plunge. Meanwhile, Miles curls his huge fingers around Bass’ penis and squeezes until Bass whimpers and comes suddenly, his inner muscles constricting hard, seed splashing onto Miles’ chest. Miles wrenches his eyes closed and pulls Bass tightly against him, coming too with a ragged gasp. Bass’ waning dick gets snagged in Miles’ cum-tangled chest hair, and he skates a hand between them to free it, before Miles pulls him crushingly close again.

Panting, Miles whispers unprompted, “Love you.”

Bass gulps hard, his heart racing faster than his orgasm, as Miles’ girth still aches inside him. “Love you, too.”

* * *

As Bass shakes off the painfully cherished memory, he hazards a conversation, more to clear his mind than anything else. “Well. You’ve still got it even with that crippled hand.”

Miles glances back at him. “Hand’s fine. Only hurts when it’s cold.”

Why oh why is Bass fucking saying this: “Miles, you remember Okinawa?” He has no self-control.

Miles flinches and squints. “What made you think of that?”

“Don’t know.” _The intimacy of shooting together again?_

The dark eyes regard Bass for a moment before dropping to the desert floor. “We were kids,” Miles excuses it away.

It wounds Bass even though it shouldn’t; it’s really his fault for bringing it up. But they _weren’t_ just kids. Miles loved him. He said so. Idiotically, Bass continues, “Don’t you ever miss us?”

Miles makes a small scoffing sound.

Just as the wagon comes into sight, there’s another rumble from his companion so reluctant it’s almost inaudible. “Of course.”

The last time Bass was this shocked out of his gourd was when Miles betrayed him. But the wagon’s here, and there is Connor.

Later that evening, Bass grows listless. Rachel and Charlie are tending to Gene, Connor is peeling the skin of an apple with deliberate slowness, and Miles…

“Where _is_ Miles?” Bass asks, and Connor cocks an eyebrow. It vaguely irks Bass that his son appears intrigued or puzzled by his insistence that they keep Miles around.

Connor responds (with a hint of smugness?), “I think he went to the river to wash up.”

Bass nods, “Well, I’ve got to talk to him about something. You keep watch over Nurse Nightingale and company, okay?”

Connor sniffs dismissively and plucks an apple slice from his knife.

Bass gets more than he bargained for at the river. Miles has stripped entirely to the nude and waded in ankle-deep, splashing water at his crotch and his armpits. His skin has been tanned to leather by the sun; his freckles are darker than they used to be; he’s skinny enough to see ribs. It shouldn’t be beautiful, but it is. Bass has to swallow and steel himself against the approach.

“Miles.”

Miles freezes briefly and returns to washing without looking up. 

“I just…” Bass is not very adept at holding back with Miles. “We _could_ have something again.”

Miles finally turns with his hands on his hips. Bass tries not to let his eyes skim down to the dripping hair above that vulnerable, pink skin. “Huh. And how’s that, Bass?” Miles’ voice perpetually oozes with exasperation around Bass. He’s tired of it. 

“Miles, for fuck’s sake. Do you think you could stop being a jackass for one minute, or is it impossible for you?”

The brown eyes flash, and Miles trudges out of the water to dry himself, catching his necklace in his violence. When he starts to wrap his towel around his waist, Bass butts in, getting right in his space. Miles extends fully upward, exploiting their height difference, but intimidation won’t work on Bass. He probes the eyes he’s known his whole life until they blink.

Miles spits, “You’d be willing to just forget me turning your own men against you, trying to kill you, leading Kelly’s army against you? And I – I’m supposed to forget about what you did to Rachel and Danny and Emma and _Ben_?” Is it Bass’ imagination or does Miles’ lip quiver on his brother’s name?

Bass abruptly grabs Miles’ soft dick and listens to the breath hitch. “How about we just start with this moment?”

“Let go of me, Bass,” Miles cautions, but his voice sounds garbled.

“You told me back at the Tower that we’d always be brothers.”

“Also told you I hated you. You’re a selective listener.”

Bass tightens his grip on the cock, which turns to cement in his hand – heavy, hard, a life apart from what Miles’ brain is no doubt ordering it. It feels so good to Bass, so silky and familiar, that he begins kneading it without making a conscious decision.

“Stop,” Miles tries again, almost a whisper.

“No.”

Miles crumbles then and reaches for Bass’ jawline with both hands, forcing him into his lips. Everything becomes ferocious and careless, Miles’ hands in Bass’ clothes, yanking away his shirt and forcing open his pants. Miles pauses to lick his fingers and shoves them into Bass’ waistline, grabbing hold of his dick and balls at once and rolling them together. _Fuuuuck._ They’re good at this, like the sniping. They know each other perfectly.

“Miles, don’t make me come in my pants,” Bass warns. It’s his only pair, and he doesn’t want to sit in his own spunk for the rest of the night.

With an impatient grunt, Miles wrenches down Bass’ pants and underwear and apparently decides to make the best of his time down there. Wet heat engulfs Bass’ cock, and after some energetic sucking that makes Bass’ brain short-circuit, Miles is back up, crushing Bass’ erection in his fist. 

_Fuck, oh fuck_ , they’re jacking each other so hard, they’re grunting and gasping, and somehow they bring each other off at exactly the same instant, falling into each other, trying hard to wring the other through his high but struggling against the complete collapse of their knees. They’re dripping in each other’s seed, and Bass, for one, is a little startled at how whole-hog they went into that. He stumbles to the river to wash up, and in a moment, registers the little plashes of Miles next to him.

As a sound starts to escape Miles’ lips, Bass interjects, “Just don’t, Miles. I don’t want to hear it.”

Whatever Miles was going to say, he doesn’t try again.


End file.
